At Worlds' End
by perilouspolly
Summary: A POTC and Sandman crossover. Given the title of the third movie, it just had to be done, so here's yet another version of the final installment of the Pirates saga. Mild spoilers for the Sandman series and the last movie within.
1. Up She Rises

**Disclaimer:** The Mouse owns the Pirates, Neil Gaiman the Endless, and it's too much fun having commandeered them for a while!

_Chapter I: Up She Rises_

"Damn you, Jack Sparrow!" roared Davy Jones, lifting his watery eyes to the heavens. His crew was silent with shock; it took some time for him to realize they stood behind him, awaiting orders (or dreading punishment, as the case might have been). Davy Jones collected himself, focused his rage. "Call off the Kraken," he hissed to his first mate, knowing well that it was too late.

The Bo'sun lifted his cat o'nine tails. Maccus shouted to the crew, "To the signal!" The pitiful monsters scattered to their posts, the Bo'sun cracking his whip at their heels.

Davy Jones braced himself against the table, staring into the trunk that had faithfully held his heart for so long. Of course, the heart would be safe in the depths of the ocean – difficult to retrieve, but safe. But if there were any chance of Jack Sparrow making yet another of the miraculous escapes he was famous for, any chance of Sparrow harming the heart as the Kraken dragged him down to the depths of the ocean…

Jones felt a sudden pain in the left side of his chest, exactly beneath the place he used to store the key young Turner had stolen from him. His tentacles grasped at the spot, his claw struck the table, and his mind reeled like an unruly compass. His worst fears were realized as he felt himself inexorably pulled in the opposite direction of the spot of the Black Pearl's doom.

Davy Jones' heart was far from safe.

* * *

"What d'yeh do with a drunken sailor, what d'yeh do with a drunken sailor, what d'yeh do with a drunken sailor err-lie in the mornin'?"

The man's raspy voice echoed over the calm ocean. Had there been any ships within range, they would have heard his drunken song before spotting _The Blind Betsy_, but few ships traveled these waters.

The figure of a buxom woman, carved with flowing hair and a cloth tied tightly round her eyes, burst forth from the fog, followed by the ship's prow. Captain Barbossa tightened his grip on the wheel as he stared grimly toward the next misty patch on the horizon. The monkey on his shoulder let out a reassuring chirp.

"Stick 'em in the scupper wi't the hosepipe on 'em, stick 'em in the scupper wi't the hosepipe on 'em, stick 'em in the scupper wi't the hosepipe on 'em, err-lie in the mornin'."

Barbossa rolled his eyes. "You're doing naught but givin' me idearrs, Mr. Gibbs," he called down to his newly minted first mate. Gibbs, for his part, raised a bottle to the Captain and rambled off toward the stern of the ship, where a figure hunched over the rail.

"Put 'em inta bed with th'Captain's daughter, put 'em inta bed with th'Captain's daughter, put 'em inta bed with th'Captain's daughter, err-lie in the mornin'," Gibbs half growled, half sung as he stumbled past Will Turner, who had been staring out at the dark ocean for hours.

A lovely young woman sidled up to Will, a steaming cup in her hands. Holding it out to him, she smiled tentatively and said, "I've never understood why that verse would be considered punishment for drunkenness."

Will refused to meet her gaze. "What they fail to mention is that the 'Captain's daughter' is another name for the lash," he said bitterly. He turned and stalked off, leaving Elizabeth Swann at the rail. The salt from the spume stung her eyes and lips. She wrapped her arms tightly around her body, hoping against hope that the action would ward away tears. She deserved Will's scorn, for her part in the death of Jack Sparrow. But the gulf between what she deserved and what she expected from Will had always been a wide one.

_The Blind Betsy_ was catching up with the next patch of fog; it licked the rigging and made the lanterns shudder. Elizabeth shivered, wrapping her hands around the cup. Someone approached, softly shuffling from the direction Will had gone.

"Take dis," said Tia Dalma, wrapping a red robe around Elizabeth's shoulders. "To ward off de col'."

"Thank you," Elizabeth murmured, avoiding the woman's dark eyes. She had an uncanny feeling that Tia Dalma knew her part in the sinking of the Pearl far better than any of the men who had been there to see the Kraken drag it below. She busied herself knotting the robe's belt. The pattern was foreign, Manchurian perhaps. Elizabeth wondered if it had been a gift in exchange for an amulet or a jar of unknowable oddities, or if the woman had brought it back from the ends of the earth herself. Given the stories Tia Dalma had told them that night back in her hut, she wouldn't have been surprised.

* * *

They had sat around the edges of the creaky hut, the only noise amongst them the constant thunk of Will's knife thrown into the table. Tia Dalma had been the one passing out drinks that night, insisting Elizabeth take one. She had mentioned the cold and the sorrow then as well, as though she knew Elizabeth was chilled – not from the muggy bayou air, but from deep within. It was then Will had turned to face her for the first time since she had ordered them away from the_ Pearl_. In a soft voice, he had told her, if anything was to be done… How she had loathed herself just then. Mercifully, Tia Dalma had asked them how far they would go to retrieve Jack. Will's eyes had burned as he swore his devotion to the pirate captain; Elizabeth had barely been able to summon her voice. Though the promise brought with it all sorts of confusion and complications, she desperately wanted him back. _"Pirate,"_ he had whispered with a smile, his lips mere inches from hers. Much more than the Black Pearl had been scuppered that day.

But the shock of Tia Dalma's next revelation had pushed those thoughts to the back of Elizabeth's mind. Captain Barbossa, whose death she had witnessed with her own eyes, had walked down the stairs and taken a bite out of his precious green apple, looking far more alive than at any point in their previous acquaintance.

"But – how –" Gibbs gasped.

Pintel crossed himself several times, in various patterns and directions.

"_You_," said Will, with marked disbelief. "Jack felled you in that cave."

Barbossa swiveled his head toward Will and gave him a dangerous grin. "Turns out he wasted that shot after all."

Gibbs eyed his empty mug suspiciously.

"Dere's no tricks here, gentleman," Tia Dalma had said, spreading her arms wide. "No more tricks dan meet de eye."

"No potions nor powders nor spells. This kind and generous lady made a deal on my behalf," said Barbossa.

"With Old Hob 'imself?" asked Ragetti, eyes wide.

Tia Dalma smiled mysteriously. "No, no, no," she replied, twitching a finger from side to side. "Wit' de good lady."

Ragetti had looked to Pintel, who shrugged and turned the whole of his attention to Tia Dalma. But she merely laughed, refusing to elaborate. Tia Dalma stopped to light a candle, blowing the match out and watching the smoke curl its way into the bottle-festooned rafters. She smiled mysteriously, her face illuminated by the small flame. "Dere be ways of reviving de dead, just as dere be ways to find what canno' be found, and to sail oceans never mean' to be traveled.

"I know dose oceans, long time ago. Davy Jones tink him de sea!" She let out a short, cold laugh. "Him only a small part of it. Odders know dose waters long before him set sail. Kind ladies and gentleman, dey were. But, oh… you didn't dare anger dem. For if you angered one of de kind folk, you met wit' de fury of de sea.

"First she send what you have already faced. She send de dragons of de sea. Now days, dere is only one left, and it answers to Davy Jones. So," said Tia Dalma, with a shrug, "she move on.

"She blow ships off course. She maroon dem on islands dat only appear once in a hundred years. She send dem to de place of ice and flame, where de flesh-eating giants live. She send dem to lands where de water and de fruit and de woman lull sailors to sleep. Some fates be kinder dan odders. But all dese fates be kinder dan what lies in store for dose who escape de islands. For den, she send de storms. A ghost of a ship blows across de prow, and de man in de Crow's Nest shout out, afraid. Him see it coming first."

"See what coming?" Will prompted.

"De storm," said Tia Dalma, practically whispering now.

"She send great walls of water dat crush ships. She boil de seas, till all de fish pop up and float on de surface, and de hull of de boat starts to crack. She suck ships down into de whirlpool, or t'row dem up in de air wit' de waterspout.

"An' den, it be you and de sea alone. An' dis be de worse fate of all."

There was a vague sound of bodies shifting uncomfortably, and empty mugs being set aside, their counterparts wishing them filled again.

Airily, Tia Dalma continued. "But – if you be bless to make it goin' cross to de far side, you arrive in a land of green mountains tumblin' down into de sea. Dere boats have sails like de back of dragons, and glow wid lanterns like fireflies. De harbors are full of spice and silk and precious cargo. And de pirates…" (here she paused and laughed) "De pirates are masters of de sword."

The small hut was quiet, but for the creaking of the piles.

"Here it is dat you will find word of Jack Sparrow, on de far side of de worl'. Now – let me ask you again. How far are you willing to go to bring him back?"

There was a long silence before Will spoke, again looking to Elizabeth. "I am willing." She met his eyes for the briefest of moments before turning back to Tia Dalma.

"As am I."

The rest of the crew murmured their assent. Tia Dalma seemed satisfied. She leaned back in her chair. "Like I say, you be needing a Captain who knows de waters at Worlds' End." With a lazy gesture toward the man, she said, "Captain Barbossa has been sailing dose waters a long time now. He will lead you dere."

Elizabeth looked to Barbossa. He was watching Tia Dalma intently, his face betraying nothing.

"Now," said the woman, "we need a ship."

* * *

Tortuga in the daylight was perhaps worse than it was at night. The typical debauches still took place – drunks sleeping between the hogs, women of ill-repute advertising their wares – but the daylight revealed an additional layer of muck in the stalls and the harsh lines that marked the prostitutes rouged faces. The darkness lent a softness and magic to the scene. By day, it was a hard, depressing reality.

It was here they'd come to survey the market. They'd already seen a handful of ships, some not even sea worthy, some obviously commandeered from the British or Spanish Navies and hastily repainted, their "owners" eagerly wishing for a bag of gold for their troubles, before the Navy and the noose caught up with them.

"Fastest ship in the Caribbean, nigh but one," swore the gentleman currently attempting a sale.

"_The__Black Pearl_'s sunk," said Ragetti mournfully.

"Seen it with our own eyes, we did," added Pintel.

The gent cracked a wide, toothless smile. "Fastest ship in the Caribbean!" he advertised, with a grand gesture toward his own ship.

"No!" said Tia Dalma, tossing up a hand carelessly. "Dis is not de ship."

"Beggin' your pardon, ma'am!" the salesman interjected, but Tia Dalma had already begun to stroll back up the dock.

Will rushed to head her off. "That's the sixth ship we've seen today, the second _good_ ship. What is it that we're waiting for?"

Tia Dalma's eyes widened as she pointed past Will and smiled. "Dat one."

Will turned and to look at the next dock over. "That one?" he asked, pointing and squinting at the largest, most magnificent ship in the harbor. Elizabeth did not blame his incredulity; as lovely as it was, it was obviously far out of their bargaining range.

"_Dat_ one," purred Tia Dalma, still pointing. Will's eyes widened as he followed her gaze past the galleon to a smaller ship, painted (or rather, peeling) black. It was listing starboard, showing a heavy row of barnacles above the port side waterline. Its sails were graying and worn, and what could be seen of the sloping deck was covered in fishing nets and what looked to be the undoubtedly foul-smelling remains of various sea-life.

"That one," repeated Will, staring at something unseen in the distance and nodding. It was an expression half way between disbelief and a good-natured humoring of someone who was clearly crazy and therefore deserved either great pity or great respect. Elizabeth bit her lip to keep from smiling. It was so undeniably Will. She'd seen him look the same way when dealing with Jack…

She drew a sharp breath as the cold settled in again. Will glanced at her with a flash of concern before rendering his face impassive. Elizabeth steeled herself, straightening her posture. Will turned away and followed Tia Dalma toward the most miserable-looking ship they'd seen all day.

* * *

Though her skin shone beautifully in the afternoon sun, Tia Dalma seemed far more at home in the flickering glow of the lamps in the captain's quarters. Grime obscured any daylight that would have shone from the cabin windows. The captain sat at a small table. He was a little man with a caved-in chest and an empty sleeve that hung limply from his frame. He surveyed Tia Dalma and the motley crew assembled around her with obvious mistrust.

"I can give you t'ings you dream of," Tia Dalma whispered across the table. "What are you wishing?" she asked, slinking close to the man. Will did not envy him; pressed against Tia Dalma's side was a highly uncomfortable place to be, especially with no Jack Sparrow to distract her.

"In exchange for _The Blind Betsy_, can ye bring back me Hester, gone these thirty years?" he asked, hope in his eyes.

"It woul' take time," she said, leaning away. "And time is some-ting we are short of."

The man barked out a laugh. "Good. I wouldn't take that shrew back if she be tearing down me door an' beggin' me. Best day o' me life when she passed."

Will found himself exchanging an unwanted glance with Elizabeth. They both quickly turned back to the table.

"Nar," the captain growled. "Give me a bag full o' gold, and ye can keep yer love and me ship." Tia Dalma smiled graciously as she took the seat across from the captain.

"In dat case, we have a _deal_."

* * *

Barbossa had found a deserted inlet, had undertaken the impossible task of shaking the small crew into order, and had done so admirable. Tia Dalma watched them work from a distance before slipping off into the darkness. After a hard night of swabbing the deck, replacing the rigging, mending the sails, careening the ship to scrape both sides of the hull, and a morning's rest, they had set sail on a southeasterly course. Elizabeth had attempted to engage Will in conversation once the necessary tasks were finished and the blood-red sun was sinking in the west. He had been polite, but in few words made it clear he did not wish to speak with her.

Elizabeth sighed, burrowing deeper into the water-like folds of Tia Dalma's robe. "Will you look at dat," the woman murmured as they emerged from the fog, and the first rays of light lit up the morning sky like the inside of a pearly shell.


	2. Payment for the Captain

_Chapter II: Payment for the Captain_

Admiral Norrington strolled across the battlements as he waited for the expected ship to come into sight. It was odd, he considered, that one could regain one's title, even surpass it, yet not regain ones life. He was not alone in having made a bargain with Beckett – Governor Swann, since returned to England a broken man, had given his title and influence for a chance to save his daughter. And to what end? Norrington smirked bitterly toward the ground, then raised his head and recollected himself with a deep sigh. He had watched the Black Pearl be dragged to the depths by the Kraken, but had hoped against hope that the crew – at least _one _of the crew – had managed to escape. Beckett had been the one to inform him that all hands had perished, a task Norrington believed he had relished.

But with Beckett's patronage and Governor Swann's influence in London, James Norrington had managed to be honorably acquitted by the court-martial investigating the loss of his fleet and earn a promotion to a post the Caribbean neither necessitated nor deserved. Though he thought his work of the previous eight years had merit, he was not fool enough to think the Caribbean more than a provincial outpost in the eyes of the King. The important trade route needed to be protected, but England had far more pressing obligations. Which was exactly why they had sent someone who would never be accepted into London society, despite his newly found title – "Lord" Cutler – no, now "Governor" – Beckett.

* * *

Norrington was not the only fallen-then-reappointed captain awaiting a ship. In the depths of Hell, Lucifer tapped his foot impatiently. Things were lagging today, what with the sudden influx of plague-dead from Persia, but he had been expecting an arrival of particular interest for several days now. He sighed, wondering what could be taking so long.

* * *

It was pitch black in the belly of the beast, and terribly slimy. Jack found his hat, then reached into his pocket for two pieces of flint. His fingers slid across them, and though he knew it to be a hopeless case, he attempted to wipe them off as best he could. He had struck them together only three times when a spark appeared. Surprised, and without a bit of cloth ready to catch fire, Jack dropped the flint.

"Bugger," he muttered, going down on hands and knees to search for the stones. He found one, but the other seemed to be lost in the muck that coated the Kraken's stomach. As his finger groped, a faint light shone across the slippery surface. "A-ha!" Jack proclaimed, grabbing the errant piece. It took him a moment to realize just how he had found it.

Jack looked up into the smiling face of a beautiful woman. She had pale skin, dark glossy hair, and her dark eyes were rimmed in kohl, though a smudge near the bottom drew attention toward one. She was wearing a black dress of tattered lace in a style that had been popular a good ten or twenty years back. She almost looked like a working lady Jack had spent a memorable weekend with in Singapore.

Jack cocked his head, and grinned up at her. "Hello, love," he said. "Come here often?"

The woman smiled back mysteriously. As she raised the candle to her face, a sort of silver cross glittered round her neck. She took a step back, and motioned for him to follow. Perhaps she was mute.

"You know, they've got birds that can be trained for your sort of ailment," said Jack, as he got up and followed after her. The Kraken's stomach lining squelched with every step he took, but the woman made no noise as her candle flickered farther and farther away from him.

"Whatever it is you're chasing, can't get very far," he bellowed after her, slipping and falling in the process. "Damn." He braced himself to get up, but suddenly, the lady in black stood before him, offering her hand.

"Why thank you, love," said Jack, reaching up to take it.

Jack shook his head in confusion. He was standing at the end of a long line, which wound steeply down out of the dark, heavy clouds. Thunder rumbled overhead, and crows cawed from the few gnarled trees that grew along the rocky path. The people ahead of him trudged along silently, headed toward a murky river. At the other side lay an imposing set of black gates, over the top of which an eerie red glow emitted. Jack turned around in time to see more weary people appear through the gray curtain of fog behind him. He tapped a nearby man on the shoulder.

"What's the queue for?" he whispered.

"We're waiting to pay the Captain."

"I don't follow."

"The Captain demands a coin to ferry your soul across the river."

"So, what you're saying is we're supposed to be giving _our _shine for the privilege of being ferried across _that_ river and through _those _gates into Jones' Locker, Hades, Hell (what have you), where for our troubles we'll receive eternal damnation and suffering?"

The man thought for a moment. "That sounds about right," he replied.

Jack leaned back and frowned at him. "Seems a bit unfair to me."

"We're here, aren't we," the man shrugged sadly. "We must deserve it."

"Perhaps _you_ do, but due to circumstances not of my own making, I lost my life saving an innocent crew from imminent destruction by a fairly nasty beastie." As he spoke, Jack shook out his pockets, a few whole coins and pieces of eight falling to the ground. "But whether you deserve it or not, good luck, mate." Jack clapped the man across the back, and began to sneak away with exaggerated steps.

A minute later he snuck back in line behind the man. "You don't happen to know if the way out is through that patch of fog, do you?" The man shook his head. "I figured not," muttered Jack, making his exit once more.

"'Scuse me, pardon me, permesso, pardon." Jack made his way past blankly staring people. He had almost reached the gray mire when a shaky voice rang out over the crowd.

"Han jus' where d'ya think yer goin'?" The line parted for a small, elderly man with a long white beard and milky eyes. He frowned up at Jack.

Jack gave him a winning grin. "I'm 'fraid I haven't had the honor," he said holding out his hand. "You would be…?"

"I 'ave many names. Ye kin call me the Captain."

Jack curled his hand back into his sleeve and reassessed the man.

"Seems to me you charge a rather high price for your services, 'the Captain'."

"Hit's a fair price," said the old man, narrowing his eyes. Jack made a face.

"No one here seems to think this arrangement unreasonable?" The crowd turned their gray faces to stare at him, but no one said a word.

"Payment's due, Jack Sparrow," said the Captain.

"A bit of a problem, Cap'n," said Jack, throwing his arm around the old man and gesturing to accent his words. "You see, you demand payment for your charter. And as I have no payment to pay you with, I am unable to purchase your product at the present. Savvy?"

The Captain gazed at Jack with his sightless eyes. Then he closed them, relaxed his wrinkled face, and stretched out his palm toward Jack's chest. Jack leaned back, watching the hand intently. It moved up and down, before coming to rest directly over his right eye.

"You have a coin," the Captain stated.

"This? You don't want this old thing. Exchange rates have rendered it useless. Merely a decoration." Jack fumbled with the coin braided into a strand of hair, sticking his tongue between his teeth and tugging ferociously when it refused to budge. The Captain made no move, but continued to stare at Jack blindly.

"Anyone else fancy a ride?" Jack cried, finally managing to get the accursed thing off. "My treat!"

A small, grubby-faced urchin raised her hand tentatively. "Here you go darling," said Jack, stooping down and patting her on the shoulder. "Be sure to invest it wisely."

A moment later, four demons pitched Jack onto the Captain's barge rather unceremoniously.

* * *

The residents of Port Royal had seen many peculiar things. They were a peculiar people, subjects of the crown misplaced in a tropical paradise. But not every colony had to endure such hardships. They had survived an earthquake that had sent half the city crumbling into the sea. They had out lasted storms with terrible thunder and lightening, and winds strong enough to blow babes out of the cradle. They had been attacked by cursed pirates who refused to die, and turned to bones by the light of the moon. They had watched as the British East India Trading Company had sailed into town, under a cloud of uncertainty, dread, and perhaps less poetically, rain.

Still, the arrival of _The_ _Flying Dutchman_ in Port Royal filled the heart of even the most weathered citizen with an as-of-yet unknown fear.

"Davy Jones?" whispered one wrinkled old man. "Thought he was doomed to sail the Cape of Good Hope for all eternity."

His wife, who had stopped listening to the man's prattle forty years earlier, ran out to bring in the laundry before the legendary monsters came ashore.

Up at the fort, Admiral Norrington closed his spyglass with a humorless smile. "Inform the Governor that his guests have arrived."

Beckett had prepared his office for an interview with Captain Jones, setting out food and wine. He hadn't counted on the water spots on his newly imported carpet. His nostrils twitched as Jones took a seat in the chair across from him. He would have Mercer acquire a new one before they set out. Beckett stared over his steepled fingers at the… _thing_ sitting across from him. He would soon get over his aversion to its slimy tentacles and claw-like limbs. Davy Jones was going to make Cutler Beckett a very rich man.

Jones leaned toward him. "I beli_eve_ you have something that belongs ta' me," he said quietly.

Beckett smiled. The best deals always began with his account in favorable balance.

* * *

Jack sat in the back of the barge, arms crossed, elbows resting on knees. Just beneath the murky waters of the river, he could see hints and flashes of pale shapes, like large fishes slithering by. Best not to chance it – Jack had no desire to be swallowed by yet another overgrown specimen of mythological marine life. The clouds overhead rumbled ominously.

The boat bumped gently against the rickety dock at the far side of the river. The old, blind ferryman skillfully threw out the rope, tossing it over the mooring and securing the boat with a well-practiced knot. "We be reachin' yer final port o' call," he announced to the recently deceased aboard. He stood aside, and let them exit, slowly, mindlessly, their heads hung low.

Jack was the last one in line. He leaned close to the Captain, wrapping a hand around the oar the old man clenched at his side. "I think there's still time for us to come to an agreement. T'would be a pity for a fine gent like yourself to let a scoundrel like me take advantage of your hospitality."

"What d'ye mean?" asked the ferryman suspiciously.

"I mean," said Jack Sparrow, tossing and catching the Captain's purse with one hand, "that I've got your loot, and you're going to be left standing here wiv' naught but an oar and a crowd of debtors." With a roughish smile, Jack took off.

"Come back 'ere with me coins!" the old man shouted, limping after Jack. The crowd at the gates of Hell turned and mutely watched the two men run around the banks of the Acheron. It was several minutes before the Captain hobbled back to his boat, winded, and whistled for reinforcement.

The crowd parted, and the ground shook slightly as the beast approached. Jack watched, smile still frozen on his face, as a dog the size of a small ship made its way past the pitiful shades. The dog's three heads turned, three noses sniffing the air. Six eyes settled on Jack. Three sharp sets of teeth were bared, and three sets of canine vocal chords growled in awful harmony.

"Nice doggy!" Jack yelped, and scurried back toward the boat.

The captain was waiting. He held out his hand and grinned cruelly as Jack ran at him. Jack gritted his teeth, grabbed the oar from the old bastard, and smacked him across the face with it. The old man wilted helplessly to the floor of the barge. The dog charged toward them, its rolling strides covering a ships length in a single bound. Jack hastily dumped the captain overboard, and struggled with the knot. He loosed the boat just as warm slobber from the dog's bark splattered across him. Jack pushed off and began to frantically paddle down river. The dog continued to bark at him, but seemed unwilling to jump into the water to continue the chase. Two of its three heads let out pitiful howls, as the third bent over, its wet nose nudging the fallen ferryman.

* * *

Back in Port Royal, a deal had been struck. Though it wasn't much of a deal, thought Bootstrap Bill, as he loaded provisions for living sailors aboard the _Flying Dutchman_. A deal usually involved something favorable for both parties. The only favor he could see Beckett paying Captain Jones was the favor of not destroying his heart. Blackmail, was what it was. The Captain had had no true choice in the matter. What man wouldn't choose life, no matter how twisted or small or controlled a version, to death? Bootstrap muffled a bitter laugh. Ironic, that.

The last of the crates had been loaded, and the two Royal Navy ships that were to be accompanying them signaled their readiness. The familiar thud of the Captain's peg leg sounded as he walked up the gangplank, claw and tentacles clasped behind his back, a thoughtful frown upon his face. At an earlier time, Bootstrap might have felt a twist of pity for the Captain, but after being forced to watch the ship his son had just boarded be dragged below – no, he had no pity for Davy Jones. Regardless, he stood aside as he passed, his loathing eyes following Jones's every move. Behind the Captain strode three men. Two were rather pompous-looking officials dressed in fine clothes, one tall and proud, and the other short, with a calculating look in his eye that Bootstrap found unsettling. The third man was older and rougher than the others, and worried Bootstrap most of all. He'd seen enough of the world to be able to pick out those rare individuals who were truly evil. Most wicked men had a fault they could blame their shortcomings on, be it pride, or the want of gold, or a broken heart. Then there were those who did unspeakable things for no rhyme or reason whatsoever, save but for the pleasure of it. This final man reeked with the stench of one who did evil for evils sake.

Bootstrap watched warily as they inspected the bridge of the _Flying Dutchman_. The short man nodded, as though he was pleased to find things in order. The tall man turned and spoke to the Captain. The older man hung back, saying nothing, but taking everything in. Once the tall man finished speaking, the short man added a few words. Bootstrap was too far away to hear what was said, but there was no mistaking the mask of displeasure that crept across Davy Jones' face as he listened. The three men turned to go. Bootstrap watched them disembark. The tall man caught his eye and looked away quickly with a mixture of distaste and pity. The older man saw the exchange, his eyes shooting over to Bootstrap. Bootstrap turned his head rather than meet the evil man's glance. The first mate called out for the crew, giving him a welcome excuse to come away from the railing. Once they were all assembled, the Captain addressed the crew.

"So gentlemen… we _join_ the _fleet_ of Admiral Nor_ring_ton, who is accompa_nied_ by Governor Beckett. We set course ta' Pata_gonia_, round Cape Horn, and continue west ta' tha' _end_ of tha' world. Along the way, we are ta' capture or _destroy_ any pirate vessel or other enemy of tha' Crown that _lies_ in our path."

There was a muttering amongst the crew. "What're the blighters after?" rasped Palifico.

"Governor _Beckett_," spat Davy Jones, "has been instructed ta' secure tha' most _direct_ route between the West Indies and tha' Far East. His _maps_ tell him easiest way ta' get there is ta' sail inta' the _west_."

"But at Worlds' End are terrors no living man can survive," Maccus growled.

The edges of Davy Jones' mouth twitched into a grim smile. "And _so_ we go ta' Worlds' End, at tha' Governor's own _request_." His crew began to cackle wildly. "Bring up tha' anchor! Hoist tha' _sails_, you scurvy swabs!" Jones shouted at them. "We've a long journey ahead of us," he added softly.


	3. Fair Trade

Chapter III: Fair Trade 

_The Blind Betsey's _crew had passed Patagonia several weeks ago, navigating round ice floes and spouts of fire that marked the far southern reaches of the continent. They had successfully evaded the giants that lived there, and had only briefly been pulled off-course toward the islands that seemed to be the source of beautiful music (thanks to Elizabeth's command that all men aboard cover their ears). Each day, Tia Dalma scattered various bones and shells across the deck, humming as she examined the shapes they made. Each night, she burnt bits of things of unknown origin that she kept in bags and vials hidden in her voluminous skirts. A handful of strange powder would send green or violet sparks into the clear night sky, and she would watch them with narrowed eyes or cackle gleefully, her mood depending on results Will could not guess at. This evening, Elizabeth sat close by her, not speaking or interfering, but watching closely. Watching, and waiting for news of Jack, Will thought bitterly.

As it had a thousand times already over the course of the journey, Will saw the moment replayed in his mind. Elizabeth leant in toward Sparrow. Their lips met and the pirate captain staggered backwards, just as Gibbs stepped up and blocked Will's view. But he had seen enough; enough to know his fiancée wasn't his after all.

"Awk, Scurvy Dog," squawked Mr. Cotton's parrot as the mute pirate walked past.

Will furrowed his brow in silent agreement. Jack Sparrow had betrayed him, as had Elizabeth. And yet, here he was, on a dangerous voyage to the ends of the earth for them both. In Tia Dalma's hut, still grappling with what he had seen moments before the _Pearl_ had gone down, he had looked toward Elizabeth and seen every emotion he felt in himself etched upon her face. If losing Jack was a tenth as painful to her as losing her was to Will, well… he would journey to world's end to alleviate her suffering.

Still, it wasn't as though he was completely selfless. Will Turner had learnt a thing or two in the company of pirates.

The _Black Pearl_ was the only ship that could chase down the _Flying Dutchman_, and with it, Will's father. Will grasped the handle of the knife in his pocket. He had sworn an oath. He would see Jones destroyed. He would set Bill Turner free.

* * *

Admiral Norrington's fleet of five ships had grown to twelve, following a string of successful battles. They had had to scupper several of the ships they had engaged after relieving them of their goods. Earlier in the day they had come across an unprotected Dutch merchant vessel. As always, the representatives of the East India Trading Company and the Royal Navy fell back and let the crew of the _Flying Dutchman_ do the job. Jones couldn't deny that his crew enjoyed the bloody work, but the Captain himself had retired to his cabin once the battle was won, refusing to take his pick of the survivors. He'd have them ferried over to the _Unicorn _later in the day, after the crew had a chance to terrorize them for a bit. He felt somehow sullied by the insinuation that he was to compete with the Admiral and the Governor for new recruits. 

In the meanwhile, his crew was looking through the loot. Regardless of the rules the representative of the East India Trading Company had set, they had done the work, and they were going to take what they fancied from the conquered ship. Clanker and Hadrus were busy arguing over a case of particularly potent liquor. Koleniko dragged a fine trunk aboard. "This one's from the Captain's cabin," hissed the seaman, the quills on his face puffing out in glee. He took the blade of his serrated sword in his scaly hands, and with its heavy handle, knocked the trunk's lock off. Several members of the crew gathered round to see what the Dutch captain (who had valiantly protected his ship to the end of his life) valued so dearly.

A groan of disappointment came from the men as Koleniko held up a blue and green striped dress, simple, but fine enough for a merchant's wife. Hadrus kicked over the trunk and rifled through the remains – bits of parchment bound with ribbon and sealed with colorful wax, a string of pearls, dried flower petals, a leather-bound book. At his post on the bridge, Davy Jones turned away, tentacles set twitching by the all too familiar contents of the trunk. Hadrus growled and stomped on a small porcelain oval that lay facedown on the deck. It shattered, the gold band around its edge twisting. The sailors looked back to the case of liquor, and restarted their original row.

* * *

The vegetation on either side of the river had grown thicker after Jack had left the gates of Hell. Gnarled and stunted trees lined both banks, their black branches hung with thick gray moss that obscured the (undoubtedly) cloudy sky above. The temperature had dropped considerably. Each time he exhaled, Jack's warm breath created a misty haze in front of him, something he thought he had left behind for good upon moving to the Caribbean. Jack's teeth began to chatter as he paddled further down river, and he noticed that the heavily hanging moss began to sparkle with frost. His oar struck something. He looked down in time to see a small chunk of ice slip into the boat's wake. A few moments later, he came upon another. Soon, the river was thick with them, his oar sloshing through almost frozen slush. The barge came creaking to a halt as it hit solid ice. Jack clutched both sides and rocked the boat, but it was stuck fast. 

Carefully, he stepped out onto the ice shelf. It groaned with his weight, but didn't move. Jack hopped up and down a bit, rubbing his arms. "It's bloody freezing!" he muttered. Sliding a bit at first, he set off down the river on foot, using the oar as a walking stick.

It wasn't long before he came across his first obstacle. The trees parted suddenly, and the icy river seemed to rise up into a fortress of jagged crystals. It took a moment to recognize it as a waterfall, instantly frozen, with icicles of all sizes growing upward as well as down. Jack slid the oar through one of his belts, found a foothold, and boosted himself up. His rings and the bandage on his right hand provided enough traction to keep from sliding down the icy stalagmite. He hopped to a higher bit of ice, balancing gingerly. It was slow going, and his fingers were numb and turning blue at the tips, but finally, he threw an arm over the top and hoisted himself up. Wiping his freezing hands on his sash, he took in the sight before him.

All up and down the river were ships, in various states of wreckage. Some were half submerged in the ice, peering above the surface like dark sea monsters. Others were mostly intact, with an odd timber or mast poking out, silhouetted against the pale gray sky. Sheets of ice reared up, eternally impeding their progress, yet the hull of each ship creaked and moaned under the surface as if it desired nothing more than to break loose and go plunging down the waterfall to certain doom.

"My…" breathed Jack, starting off toward the nearest.

The ship was listing portside, but otherwise undamaged. Dark shapes moved up and down its deck, rushing as though they were depended upon to stop the ship from running down river to a horrible fate.

"Hello!" Jack cried out, "Hello, up there! Could you give me directions? Seem to have lost me way."

No one even glanced in his direction.

"Ship's not going anywhere!" he shouted, kicking its side. Again, there was no answer from the crew. Jack frowned with disappointment, and limped round the vessel until he found a gash in the hull. He stepped into the dark hold. The stench of long spoiled food greeted his nostrils. Making a face, he hurried through and climbed the stairs. The next level, full of swaying hammocks covered in cobwebs, seemed abandoned as well. He made his way up to the deck. A dark figure nearly bowled him over, running from port to starboard. Another headed toward him. Jack stuck out a hand.

"Oi! Mate, I need direc– "

But the dead sailor hurried past. Jack wandered up to the bow of the ship, and looked out over the waterfall. He had a sudden sensation, as though the water was spinning them round, rushing them to the edge. He closed his eyes and shook his head, and the feeling went away. He turned around just in time to recognize a member of the crew hurrying past him. Jack skipped to keep up, hopping in front of the man. He placed his hands on the man's arms to stop him, and cocking his head, looked him straight in the eye.

"You told me once that I knew nothing of hell. So… s'it really as bad as they say?"

Koehler looked at him with blank eyes. The pirate's dark skin was frosted over, and icicles hung from his dreadlocks. The wound in the middle of his chest, a product of Norrington's well-placed blade, was stark white round the edges. When he spoke, no puff of warm air emerged from between his blue lips.

"Those who don't pay the ferryman are doomed to wander the banks of the Cocytus for one-hundred years. But that's _nothing_ compared to an eternity spent in the deepest circle of Hell, reserved for betrayers and mutineers."

"Glad to see you took my words to heart. But how can _this_ be the deepest circle of Hell if I haven't yet entered the gates?" Jack pointed out.

Koehler opened his mouth to answer, but just then, a dark shadow blotted out all light from the pale gray sky. There was an icy rush of wind, as though giant wings had flapped. Everyone aboard shuddered as the thing passed.

"What the bloody hell was that?" Jack asked from a crouch, dark-rimmed eyes surveying the sky.

"Our Captain," replied Koehler. He turned to face Jack.

"Do not ask me how this can be. Hell has its own rules. You'd better pay up, Jack Sparrow, or find a way to escape before you're found."

* * *

The flags had been sent up, and a long boat set across to transport the Admiral to Beckett's ship. Norrington pulled himself up through the gap in the bulwark and strode across the deck of the _Endeavour _to the Governor's quarters. 

A skinny boy of about fifteen was scrubbing the deck by the door. Norrington frowned. The rest of the crew assigned to swab the decks had moved on. The boy's nose was terribly sunburnt, a mark of a good four months on a first sea voyage for a pale English lad. The older the recruit, the slower they seemed to learn. "You there," Norrington called out in annoyance, "get on with it." He gestured toward the others. The sunburnt boy looked at him in terror, and scuttled off to join them. Norrington stepped across the well-polished threshold and knocked on Beckett's door.

Beckett was bent over a large map, Davy Jones by his side. Beckett did not look up as Norrington entered, but Jones watched him intently as he made his way into the cabin.

"One hundred and seventy three degrees west, fast approaching the Tropic of Capricorn… by these calculations, we should hit Tasman's archipelago where we can restock in three days time. Does that sound correct, Admiral?"

Norrington stepped over to look at the map.

"Perhaps two, if the winds remain favorable, and we fail to run into any unmarked obstacles."

At this, Norrington could have sworn Jones's beard of tentacles had twitched slightly, but the Captain met his eye with a mild glance. It was difficult to decide who was more untrustworthy – the supernatural sea life or the East India Trading Company. While Beckett might one day greet one with a sword through the back, Norrington suspected Davy Jones could plan a far worse fate with considerably less effort. A simple change in course could find the whole fleet wrecked on a reef, awaiting a visit from the Kraken. Which was precisely why Beckett kept Jones's heart locked safely away in its trunk, and the key upon him at all times. Leverage, as past acquaintances might have said.

As though the Captain could read Norrington's thoughts, Jones stepped away from the table. "If you gentlemen will no longer be requiring my as_sist_ance, I will re_turn_ ta' the _Dutchman_."

Beckett nodded, not bothering to look up from the map before him. Norrington noted the way Jones's eyes swept across the room as he turned to leave. Once Jones found the location of his heart, all he'd have to do was bide his time. A midnight mutiny or a disaster at sea, and he could slip in and reclaim it for his own. This time he could bury it safe in the knowledge that Jack Sparrow and his wondrous compass would not be able to hunt it down. And yet, out of all the former crew of the _Black Pearl_, Sparrow was the one Norrington would be least surprised to see strolling through Tortuga with a smile on his face, or meet sailing into a foreign port. He finally had to admit, the pirate was the stuff of legend.

The door swung shut behind Jones, a trail of water left where his peg leg had dragged across the floor. A nasal voice made Norrington snap back to attention.

"Admiral, I would like you to stay for a moment so we can discuss what the arrangement will be when we reach shore." Beckett's eyes were fixed on the lower left corner of the map. His hand slid from the compass rose to the edge of the parchment, caressing it in an almost loving manner. Not for the first time, Norrington felt a wave of revulsion toward the man.

A cloud passed over the face of the moon as Davy Jones walked across the deck of the _Endeavour_. A sailor on watch crossed himself as the Captain crossed his path. Jones paid him no mind. He had yet to discover where Beckett was keeping his heart. Jones felt sure it had to be in the Governor's quarters, but it was difficult to say where. At times, he thought he felt an odd tug toward one corner of the room or another, but it had been such a very long time since he had been closely acquainted with the organ. The first hundred years had been difficult to bear, the constant pull almost as steady a point of reference as a compass. But as time passed, the feeling had lessened, and the Captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ had slowly turned into the creature he was today. Which had many advantages…

Davy Jones shut his eyes, and with great effort, lifted his foot aboard the _Endeavour _and set it down upon the deck of the silent _Dutchman_. The bo'sun nodded to him from the wheel, then returned his gaze to the dark horizon. As Jones nodded back, his crab-like peg leg hit something and sent it skittering across the deck. He looked down at the object. It was a bit of the porcelain Hadrus had smashed earlier. Now it lay face up in a shallow puddle, glowing in the moonlight. Seawater washed gently over half of a woman's painted face. She stared up at Jones – a face with an intelligent, gentle smile, and one beautiful dark eye. He reached down, his tentacles grasping the fragment and bringing it up to his watery blue eyes for a moment before they wrapped round it entirely, depositing it in his pocket. Once inside his cabin, he sat down at the pipe organ. As he pulled out the stops, a stray tentacle fished the piece of the portrait out and set it gently next to the small silver music box that lay to one side. The slight nudge set the music box tinkling, a few sad notes managing to escape before Jones laid into the keys, and the entire ship echoed with the sounds of a powerful and lonely dirge.


	4. A Reality Storm

Chapter IV: A Reality Storm 

Norrington didn't like it, being ordered to leave his ship when they were due to reach land within half a day. The closer to land and established trade routes, the more ships they would encounter, and the likeliness of those ships being unfriendly was great. Yet for the third time in two days, the flags of the _Endeavour _signaled Beckett's desire to meet with him. Norrington stared unhappily across to the _Unicorn_, from where he had come.

The unforgiving sun of the South Pacific beat down on the Admiral's fleet. This day had been slow going; the winds that had brought them so far had dissipated, and the ocean lay as flat as a tub. Though the calm, blue water looked quite lovely, Norrington was eager to reach land. The Atlantic Ocean, while cold and tempestuous in places, was a known quantity, like an old friend to a seasoned officer of the Royal Navy. The Atlantic might one day claim you as her own, almost lovingly, like a child coming home to its mother. The Pacific failed to acknowledge your existence in the first place.

Much like the new Governor himself. Norrington waited a moment before clearing his throat, broadcasting his impatience clearly.

"Ah, Norrington." Beckett looked up from his map, either seeming not to notice or simply ignoring the Admiral's annoyance. "I trust your men are ready to explore Tasman's islands?"

"Indeed they are."

"Excellent." Beckett put his hands behind his back and walked to the window. "Once we have restocked, we will continue to head west."

Norrington frowned. "I feel I must warn you again of the dangers in proceeding on that course. These waters have not yet been fully charted, and what little has shows many dangerous reefs and other obstacles."

Beckett looked at him and smiled. "Which is precisely why I employed you, Admiral." Turning back to the window, he continued to speak. "We will sail until we reach the coast of New Holland, and head northwest to Singapore. Then we make for Canton, where we will engage the French and take the harbor."

Norrington furrowed his brow. "Canton is a substantial target, and the French have a considerable presence there. I highly doubt our fleet could withstand such a battle, even if the British ships in port joined in the fight."

Beckett pressed his lips together in a tight smile. "Do not concern yourself with the French, Admiral. _That_ is precisely why I've employed Captain Jones and his terrible Leviathan."

As Norrington emerged from Beckett's cabin, a breathless lieutenant ran up to him.

"Admiral! We've spotted a ship!"

"What colors is she flying?"

"Still too far off to tell, Sir." The lieutenant handed Norrington his spyglass.

Norrington focused in on the vessel. "She doesn't seem to be flying any. A warning shot would be in order. Bring her into range, and prepare to signal the _Dutchman_."

Beckett stepped out of his cabin, Mercer joining him. Norrington did not turn to acknowledge them, but kept the spyglass to his eye. The ship was a small merchant vessel, but its cargo must have been a light one, judging by its height in the water.

* * *

Aboard the _Blind Betsy_, Will had been first to spot the approaching fleet. The ships had been too far away at the time to spot their flags, but having an alliance with no one had an upside.

"Ships ho!" Will rappelled down the mizzenmast from the crow's nest.

"How many?" barked Barbossa.

"At least a dozen."

The whole crew gathered at the rails, grim-faced, watching as the fleet drifted closer. The winds seemed to have chosen the least opportune moment to pick up again – with its large sails, the ship that led the group was closing the gap between them. Not far behind sailed two more ships that nearly equaled it in size. Elizabeth gasped, and Will's jaw clinched as they recognized the one on their right.

"H'it's the _Flying Dutchman_!" Ragetti cried out, his voice quavering.

Will looked to the other ships masts as they drew closer. The ship to their left was flying the Union Jack – it was a Royal Navy battleship, then. The flag of the galleon in the center was more difficult to make out. Will's eyes widened in surprise as he recognized the logo of the East India Trading Company. "Beckett," he whispered.

The familiar poof and whistle of a shot echoed across the calm water. "Man the guns, you scalawags!" Barbossa shouted down to Pintel and Ragetti, who hurried below. A cannon ball hit the bulwark, sending splinters flying, and whizzed off over the opposite rail at a funny angle. Pintel and Ragetti peered above deck, eyes wide, at the wreckage where they'd been standing moments before. Barbossa turned the wheel sharply.

"What are you doing?" shrieked Elizabeth, grasping the stair rail as the ship groaned and veered starboard.

"Headin' toward that sandbar. I don't want any _surprises_ from the captain of the _Flying Dutchman_."

"We'll run aground!"

Barbossa gritted his decaying teeth and held the wheel. "_We_ be having the ability to make a sudden change in course."

Elizabeth glanced back toward their pursuers – he was right. If the fleet didn't have the proper charts, and didn't spot the sandbar in time, the larger ships in the front could easily run aground. It was as good a plan as any, provided a well-placed cannon ball hadn't sent them to the depths before they could fully implement it.

Will rushed back to the quarterdeck. "Can we outrun them or are we to take a stand?"

"Against twelve ships? Are you crazy?" asked Marty, staring up at him with a look on his face that plainly said Will was.

"We run till we're forced to fight," answered Barbossa. "If that be the case, we'll be meeting Jack Sparrow sooner than planned," he added under his breath. "Now the both of ye get below to the guns! Miss Swann, stand at the ready! If needs be, give the order to fire on my signal."

Another blast screamed overhead, this one missing the boat entirely.

Their small numbers had solved more problems than they had created so far in the journey, but here they seemed to have found one. With eight guns, the _Blind Betsy _wasn't as heavily armed as the pirate vessels these men were used to crewing, but it still had more cannons than could be manned all at once. Will joined Cotton at a gun. His bird reassuringly squawked, "Dead men tell no tales."

"Thank you," muttered Will, ramming the wad. "I'll keep that in mind."

* * *

The lookout aboard the _Endeavour_ discovered their plan sooner than Barbossa had hoped. "Sir! We're heading straight for a sandbar!"

Norrington grimaced. "Turn to starboard, thirty degrees." They would cut the smaller vessel off at an angle, and hold them in place until their allegiance (or lack thereof) had been confirmed and the _Flying Dutchman _had time to catch up.

Beckett stood by Norrington's shoulder. "Should we not surround them and trap them in their course?"

"Our ships are not in proper place to implement such strategy. If I had been aboard my flagship…" Norrington stopped and clenched his jaw. It would not do to engage Beckett in an argument at present. They could discuss it later, once he had time and an illustration of _why_ flags were often preferable to conferences on his side. He raised the spyglass to his eye, and bit back a curse. The other ship was countering the _Endeavour_'smove, and looked as though it might outrun the larger ship.

* * *

Elizabeth turned back toward Barbossa with a look of joy. "We're losing them!"

"We're not out of this yet, Missy. Best not to skin the cat 'fore ye shoot it."

An ominous wind blew cross the bow of the _Blind Betsy_. Tia Dalma appeared on deck, unperturbed by the large ships tailing them. She looked up into the clear blue sky, narrowing her eyes, and sniffed. Suddenly, in the middle of the South Pacific, it began to snow. At first it was the odd flake, looking more like a gull's down or blown foam than anything odd. But as the temperature dropped remarkably, it quickly became apparent this was not an unseen freak cloud. This was a full-blown snowstorm.

"Hell's freezing over!" cackled Gibbs at his post below decks.

Barbossa turned the wheel slightly, away from the worst of the storm.

"No!" cried Elizabeth. She ran up to the wheel, and placed her hands opposite Barbossa's. "Head straight into it – if we douse the lamps, we'll disappear into the storm!"

"Ye've been sailing on the_ Pearl_ too long," croaked the Captain, retaining his course. "_These_ sails stick out against a stormy sky," he said, gesturing upward to the broad white cloths.

"Not in a blizzard!" Elizabeth cried over the howling wind. Barbossa stared at her for a moment, then grinned a yellow grin.

"No need to be dousing the lamps. The steam from the ocean will shroud them."

Will stepped above decks and stared into the whipping wind, snowflakes sticking to his hair and face.

"What is this?" he asked, turning to Tia Dalma.

"Dis," she replied with a small smile, "is a reality storm."

* * *

"We're losing them!" yelled Beckett. "Admiral, have the men run up flags. Full pursuit, and guns at the ready."

Norrington set his jaw, and took another look through the telescope. It was completely foolish to sail into such unnatural conditions. The_ Flying Dutchman _could weather them, perhaps, but what sane, God-fearing mortals would sail straight into a storm they weren't possibly prepared for? He turned the telescope toward the helm of the ship, and saw two figures standing by the wheel – a man in a big hat, and a shorter, lither figure, sun-bleached hair blowing in the wind…

"Elizabeth," he whispered, throat dry.

"Run up the flags," cried Beckett again, this time to the crew. "Prepare to fire!"

"No," said James Norrington.

"What?" Beckett cried over the wind.

"No," Norrington repeated, this time more forcefully. He turned and yelled to the men. "Drop back! Hold fire!"

Beckett strode up to him. "Are you disobeying my direct order?" the shorter man seethed.

"You told me she was dead," hissed Norrington.

Beckett's lips curled cruelly as he snatched the spyglass from Norrington. "Ah," he said. "One – no make that two – fugitives from justice. Mr. Turner is aboard as well. I think that warrants drastic measures." He turned back to address the sailors holding the flags, who by this time were thoroughly confused. As he opened his mouth, Norrington stepped in front of him.

"Stand aside, Admiral," hissed Beckett.

"No."

"Aside, Norrington, or I will have you thrown in the brig."

"I will not let you do this."

The two men glared at each other from considerably different heights.

"By the authority of the English Crown," cried Beckett, "I denounce James Norrington as a traitor to King and Country, and order him to be locked up forthwith, so that he may stand trial at the earliest opportunity." He nodded to two large sailors, who stepped forward hesitantly. Norrington drew his sword.

"Stand down, men. You will not lay a hand on me until that ship is safely out of sight."

"Shouldn't be too long, sir," shrugged the one. "We can wait."

"Now!" ordered Beckett, "Or I shall have Mercer dispense justice immediately."

Norrington turned his head slightly. Out of the corner of his eye, he could only see a curtain of white where Elizabeth's ship had disappeared. He lowered his sword, just barely. One of the burly sailors started for him, and he raised it again, out of habit. The other, glancing toward Mercer, took the butt of his rifle and swung it at the Admiral's head. It clocked him soundly, and Norrington sank to the deck in a swirl of snow.

* * *

Elizabeth had gladly watched the English fleet fade to white.

"Can we turn back yet, Cap'n?" shouted Gibbs through the blinding snow. "It's cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey!"

Monkey-Jack chattered nervously on Barbossa's shoulder. But it was Tia Dalma who answered.

"We sail t'rough. On de odder side be what we looking for."

Will glanced toward Elizabeth, who had suddenly become quite still. Her hair, violently whipping back and forth, obscured her face, but he could imagine what she was thinking.

"Yes," Tia Dalma said, glancing at Will. "We fin' Jack Sparrow t'rough dis storm."

Slowly, the winds died down. The snow fell gently, coating the deck with an inch of powdery whiteness. Eventually it stopped, and cold bright stars shone in an indigo sky. The_ Blind Betsy _sailed silently across the black waters. At one point, Pintel tapped Ragetti on the shoulder insistently, and pointed above. The tips of the masts and yardarms seemed to put out an unearthly blue glow at their tips.

"Them's fairy lights. They'll force us off course, straight onto the rocks," warned Pintel.

"I'd always figured they was an 'armless natural phenomenon," said Ragetti.

"Ah, see, there's where you're wrong. Figuring, rather than listenin' to your more knowledgeable betters."

At one point, the crew found themselves all above deck, most of them unsure of what they had just gone through. They clustered below the quarterdeck.

"What _is_ a reality storm?" Will asked.

"De universe is righting itself," was Tia Dalma's unsatisfactory reply. Will decided to return to matters for which they could find concrete explanations.

"So the Royal Navy and the East India Trading Company have joined forces with Davy Jones."

"But why would Jones be in league with them?" asked Elizabeth. She had wrapped herself tightly in Tia Dalma's red robe again.

Gibbs took a thoughtful swig from his flask. "Per'aps they all think we've got Jack aboard, and met up by chance," he suggested.

"Unlikely," Barbossa called down from his spot at the wheel, keeping his eyes on the horizon. "No, the _Flying Dutchman_ sails alone."

"Unless…" said Tia Dalma, guiding them to the only probable conclusion with a hand on her chest.

Will's face was grim. "They have the heart."

"But Norrington took it," said Elizabeth, frowning.

"Las' we saw of 'im, 'e was running into the jungle," offered Ragetti.

"Wiv' a host of creatures on 'is 'eels," added Pintel.

"He must have managed to escape," said Will, forcefully. "Beckett couldn't have acquired the heart on his own. It certainly would have been safe with Jones' crew, and Jack's compass went down with the _Pearl_. No – Norrington took the heart, and the letters of Marque, and sought out Beckett."

Elizabeth looked down and smiled bitterly. Though she'd never loved Norrington as she did Will, she had always respected him. But this feeling was new – a small part of her positively had to admire the way he'd fooled and betrayed them all, right down to Jack Sparrow. "The promise of redemption," she murmured.

Will's dark eyes flashed toward her. Jealousy, perhaps, that she remembered the former Commodore's words so well? He need hardly worry on that count.

Elizabeth's thoughts were interrupted as Marty called down from the crow's nest.

"Land ho!"


	5. The Pub at Worlds' End

Chapter V: The Pub at Worlds' End 

The _Blind Betsy _sailed smoothly into port, if the ramshackle little dock could be called such. Several other ships had already been moored there, bobbing slightly in the water. Her crew disembarked, staring around nervously as they tied her up. A full moon shone pale light upon the strange landscape, but who knew what lurked in the deep shadows at World's End? The dock crossed a thin half-moon of black sand, which rose up into rocky cliffs all around the cove. Harsh winds blew the spume off the ocean, making it dance across the dark sand, diminishing quickly before disappearing into the air. The air felt crisp and chilly, as though it might snow again.

The only light, aside the moon, came from the windows of a small building at the top of the cliff. Narrow steps had been carved into the rock face. Silently, they followed Tia Dalma up the steep stairs toward the warm, comforting light. As they stepped onto the grass at the top, each saw what the small building was. Gibbs smiled broadly.

"'Course there would be a public house at World's End!" He headed for the door, but Tia Dalma threw out an arm to stop him.

"We can stay here as long as we like. De company is good, and de drink is free. But in exchange, you each need a story to tell."

Will raised his eyebrows. "Well, we're certainly not short on those."

Elizabeth gave him a small, sly smile. He pretended not to see.

"Good," said Tia Dalma. "Den we go in." She swung the door open and sauntered in. The rest of the crew followed.

A few people looked up as they entered, but the majority of the crowd inside the pub stayed hunched over their tables, conversing with those around them. Gibbs wasted no time in finding a booth, and several of the others joined him. A rather petite woman walked past with a large metal pitcher. It took Will a moment to notice her ears, which had fine little points at the end, and her brows, which rose daintily up from her nose, and faded into the waves of her lustrous hair. She was clearly not completely human – as was the case with several of the other guests. Looking around at the strange patrons, Will leant across to Tia Dalma. "Where _are_ we?"

"At Worls' End."

"At the end of the world. At World's End."

"Yes an' no. Dis is one of de soft places – a place where one world meet many odders. At _Worls'_ End."

"Ah. At _Worlds'_ End. So where do we find Jack?"

"We sit an' wait for him to turn up here."

"Here," Will said. "In a pub." The elfish barmaid ran a cloth across the counter, and slid two large tankards of ale across to Will and Tia Dalma. Will nodded his thanks as she readied a tray for the crew of the _Betsy_.

"Everyone come to Worls' End eventually, young Wi'yam. It jus' a madder of time." Tia Dalma offered Will a blackened smile, then took her drink from the bar and drifted over to the cozy booth occupied by the rest of the crew.

Will sat down on a stool, wrapping his hands around his tankard. "I'm not sitting around in a pub waiting for Jack to come back from the dead," he muttered to no one in particular, "no matter what she claims to see."

"I hear ye, lad," said a man, plopping down on the stool beside him and sloshing his ale over the counter in the process. "No matter how much time you have, best not wait for a ship that won't sail." The man leaned over to Will. He had thinning reddish-brown hair, and his breath smelled as if he'd been a visitor at the pub for quite some time. "Just like a woman, to ask you to stay ashore. But tell me, mate, where does this Jack fellow fit into the relationship?"

"It's complicated."

"That so? Well, so's trying to bring back a man from the dead. It's far easier to avoid dying in the first place."

"I assume on occasion it can't be helped."

"You'd be surprised, lad." The man grinned before taking another swig from his tankard. "So what's your story?"

Will, remembering what Tia Dalma had said about payment, proceeded to tell him the whole long, complicated affair. The collection of empty tankards on the counter grew and was whisked away by the elfin barmaid several times before Will reached the end of his tale. But the man sitting next to him seemed surprisingly sober when he finally spoke.

"Well, that's one of the better yarns I've heard in this place."

"It's not a yarn. Every word of it is true," said Will, staring down into his drink.

"Ah, you think so, but we're all prone to embellishment. Undead Pirates? Cannibals? Great bloody sea monsters?"

Will remained silent. The man examined his face.

"Blimey," the fellow whistled. "You are telling the truth, aren't you?" He sat back, reassessing Will. "I might know of someone who could help you. Odd fellow. Pirate. Great ruddy beard – sails a ship called the _Stella Mal._"

"A Frenchman?"

"Don't know what his nationality was originally, but he doesn't seem to have an allegiance these days. He's new to the job, and though he's fantastic at what he does, it's his connections that could be of use to you. He knows Death personally."

Will turned away in disgust. He had shared his entire story with the man, and now he was clearly taking the piss out of him. "Right."

"You don't believe me, do you? I wouldn't believe me either, but it's the truth, lad."

At that moment, two gentlemen burst through the door, a long bundle propped up between them. The first was very tall with a hawk-like nose and shaggy blonde hair, the second, short, dark, and swarthy. The taller one addressed the room at large.

"Hola my good sirs… and gentle ladies," he added, upon spotting Tia Dalma and Elizabeth. "Bartend, a bottle of your finest wine for myself and something strong and fiery for my companion. You, there, man," he called to the fiddler in the corner. "A lively tune to brighten this dour evening!" He propped the bundle against the bar next to Will, and sat down on its opposite side, remarking, "Alas, the market price for a dead Indian is not what it used to be. It seems we shall have to do a bit of honest work, my Goodfellow."

His companion grunted, taking the small bottle of dark liquid the bartender offered, and downing a third of it in a gulp.

Will screwed up his face, and recoiled from the bundle, which was omitting the odor of several barrels of dead fish – long dead fish. "Sirs, kindly remove your goods from the bar. The stench is terrible."

"Aye," said the man next to him. "I can taste it in my ale."

The tall blond leaned back to see who was addressing him. His eyes lit up when he saw Will.

"My humblest apologies, Milord. Verily, my compatriot will remove it at once." The shorter man got down from his stool begrudgingly and removed the offending bundle. The tall man scooted over in its place.

"So what brings you here, my lovely young man?" He slid a lanky arm across Will's shoulder.

Will shrugged it away. "I've already told my story."

"And such a pity I didn't get to hear it," the tall man sighed, "but who is this radiant vision at your shoulder?"

Will turned to see Elizabeth.

"His fiancée," she said, with a tight smile. "Come to the table, Will." Will acquiesced. She took his hand discreetly. "You looked like you needed rescuing," she whispered. He smiled in spite of himself. Back at the bar, the tall man and his dark companion broke into a rollicking sea shanty.

_"The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and I,  
The gunner, and his mate,  
Lov'd Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery,  
But none of us car'd for Kate…"_

"You were talking with that other man for so long," Elizabeth commented as they joined the others, scooting across the deep wooden benches.

"I was telling my story."

"Did he tell his in return?"

"I suppose I didn't give him a chance. But the man is clearly mad. Says he knows someone who's acquainted with Death."

Tia Dalma turned to Will, sharply breaking off her conversation with Barbossa.

"Acquainted wit' Death? Where is dis man?"

Will gestured to him. The man seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, staring straight ahead into the collection of bottles behind the bar. Tia Dalma stood, and sashayed over to him. They exchanged a few words, then the man got up, and followed her back to their table. He sat down with the crew.

"Robert Gadling's the name," he said, "and the only reason I believe your story is the fact I've seen some pretty amazing things meself." He took another swig from his tankard. "Let me tell you about a man I met who could not die."

* * *

After his meeting with Koehler, Jack Sparrow had looked up and down the banks of the icy Cocytus and formulated a new plan. Surveying the dense shrubbery on either side of the river, he decided to take his chances. At least it would be harder for that giant, swooping… _thing_ to spot him. Jack headed inland. It was difficult going. He thrashed at the thick vines and branches with his oar.

"Watch h'it!" came a cry as the oar whooshed past a crouched figure. It straightened up as Jack jumped backwards in surprise.

"Who're you?"

"A weary traveler, just like yerself." The man squinted. "'Ere now – what's this you're carrying?"

"S'an oar."

"Where's your boat, then?"

"Barge, actually. Left it back there." Jack gestured at the black woods behind him, but they had gone. In their place were tall trees with slender white trunks and leafy canopies. The forest floor was no longer a tangle of thorns, but a mossy green carpet. He turned back to the man, mouth open, but no one was there.

Jack stood there a moment, reaching for his compass. His hand twitched away as he detected the faint strains of a lively tune. They seemed to be coming from straight ahead, perhaps slightly to the right. He followed the sound, pushing aside dense green brush, and trampling through tall grass. He put a hand forward to draw a particularly large leaf aside.

"Hullo," he whispered.

The thick forest stopped suddenly, and in its place was a large, grassy lawn. Lamps hung from the occasional shady tree, illuminating a square patch in the middle, where a sprawling tavern had been built. A fiddler was playing a jolly old song, one Jack vaguely recognized. In front of the tavern, a colorful crowd gathered to clap and dance a reel. The harsh lines of sailor's faces were erased, and creaky joints were eased as even the oldest performed a lively gig. Walking sticks and other props lined one outside wall of the pub, as former cripples got up and joined in the dance. Joyful whoops and hollers peppered the fiddler's tune, and men around the edges toasted with large mugs, the golden liquid sloshing over the edges and onto the emerald grass.

And then there were the women. Blondes, brunettes, redheads – they were busty and beautiful, with ribbons in their hair and smiles on their faces. No man seemed to want for a partner.

A pretty young lass skipped up to Jack and handed him a pint of ale. Jack smiled at the girl, who grinned widely and whitely. Taking his hand, she pulled him toward the circle of dancers. Another girl, even prettier than the first, ran up and took Jack's other hand, throwing a circlet of clover around his head like a crown as she did so. Jack picked off one of the small white flowers, gave it a sniff, and popped it in his mouth. With a thoughtful expression, he swallowed.

"What is this place?" he asked the girls, but they simply smiled, and dragged him into the dance. They twirled their colorful skirts and kicked up bare legs and feet as they spun circles around Jack.

"To your health, ladies," he said, raising his mug and downing it in one go. "You wouldn't perchance have anything stronger?"

Immediately another girl appeared by his side, a large, round bottle in hand. She presented it Jack, who held it up in the air and admired the golden glow of the liquid. As he pulled out the cork and brought it up to his lips, he leaned in toward the girl conspiratorially. "You, love, are the prettiest one of them all."

* * *

The blaze of the small trading vessel painted the water in hues of red and orange. Bill Turner's face glowed with the light from the fire as he sat in the longboat, a trunk full of loot resting between his waterlogged boots. They had made their way around the worst of the freak snowstorm with minimal damage to the fleet, and continued on course. This had been made difficult by the fact they had sailed out of the storm about two thousand miles away from the place they had entered it. While everyone associated with the Navy and the John Company deemed it to be impossible, the stars did not lie – they were currently sailing in the middle of the Indian Ocean. The crew of the _Dutchman _knew the truth – the fleet was lucky that this was the only havoc the storm had wreaked. As they sailed through the dangerous waters off Serendip, they had come across several more ships. The Governor had given the order to kill all hands, and bring the cargo back to the _Endeavour_, which was sitting well below the highest watermark on its hull. It would've been faster going had the treasure been dispersed equally between ships, but Beckett seemed more concerned with the trustworthiness of the crews than the time they made.

A rope ladder dropped over the edge of the _Endeavour_. Clanker grabbed it and hoisted himself up, a small trunk clutched under his arm. The crew of the _Flying Dutchman _slunk their way over the edge of the larger ship, spilling the loot on the deck at the feet of Cutler Beckett. The Governor picked up a green stone statue, examining it carefully. Bootstrap took his chance, quietly stepping away from the group. As Beckett turned to his manservant to make some remark, he ducked below decks.

It was dangerous, to be sure, but as he had told Will months ago, what more could they do to him? He peered round the stairs. Men's sleeping forms swayed gently in the hammocks with the rocking of the ship. No one seemed to notice as Bill slipped down the stairs to the lower level. His eyes adjusted to the dark of the hold. "Admiral?" he rasped.

There was a shuffling about halfway down. Bill quickly made his way toward the sound. There was the former Admiral, stripped of his hat, boots, and coat, lying back in a pile of straw in the far corner of the second cell. A rat scurried away from an untouched plate of gruel as Bill came closer.

"Come to see how the mighty have fallen – yet again?" Norrington drawled. He looked Bill up and down, taking in his barnacle-encrusted countenance.

"No," Bill replied. "I've come for news of my son. I heard you spotted his vessel just as the storm began."

Norrington narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. "Your son…"

"My name is William Turner, as is my boy's."

Norrington pursed his lips in surprise, speechless for a moment. He ran a hand over his unshaved chin, got up and strode to the door of his cell. "You are the father of William Turner, the blacksmith?"

"A smith?" Bootstrap exclaimed, surprised. "I'd heard he was a pirate."

Norrington smirked. "No more than I. Until recently, he was apprentice to the Port Royal smithy, engaged to be married to the daughter of the Governor."

Bootstrap Bill's lips moved, but words did not come. His eyes darted back and forth as he reconciled this information with the little he knew about his son. "A Governors daughter? He didn't mention that."

"As preposterous as it sounds – a blacksmith and a lady – it is true. She saved your son's life on the crossing from England ten years ago, and he repaid the favor when she was captured by piratesHe fell in with Jack Sparrow with the purest of motives, I assure you, though they both seem to have developed a strange affinity for the man."

"But I watched the _Pearl _sink."

"As did I, Mr. Turner. At least some of the crew seems to have been spared, though I cannot comment on Sparrow's fate. The captain of the ship I spotted was certainly not Jack Sparrow."

A dragging noise from above made them both look up. Bill knew he must return before the _Dutchman_ crew left, or noticed he was missing. He made to leave, but turned back for one more question.

"Why did you spare my Will, Admiral?"

"He was accompanied on board by his fiancée. An officer of the Royal Navy hardly fires on the daughter of one of the King's Governors."

Bill regarded Norrington closely. "He is fortunate in his choice of friends, then."

"That he is Mr. Turner," said Norrington, sinking back into the darkness of his cell. "That he is."


End file.
